Waiting Room
by mr. eames
Summary: He was thinking of what Kyle said, "Love is watching someone die." And that's exactly what he had done. Christophe/Kyle. Oneshot.


**Waiting Room**

**A/N**: This is short, rather predictable and quite the angst-fic. Naturally it's a oneshot and naturally it was inspired by a Death Cab song. 'What Sarah Said,' was total inspiration for this, especially the video because the guy makes me think of Christophe and...you want me to shut up probably. I'm not putting warnings on this as I usually would, but remember to look at the genres and understand what you may be about to read. That being said, enjoy.  
**Pairing**: Christophe/Kyle, or, as the superawesomeamazing eksley05 has dubbed it (seriously, she thought this up, all credit to her) 'Tophelovski.  
**Disclaimer**: Disclaimed, all aspects of.

**Start**

"You know, smoking isn't good for you."

The woman was right, of course. Smoking wasn't good for you. But the French boy sitting across from the pretentious lady in her pantsuit hardly cared whether or not it was good for him. It felt good and right now he needed that. So he did not answer in words, rather, he inhaled deeply and then exhaled, so as not to act upon the urge he had to slit her throat. It was something Kyle had taught him. They both had bad tempers, Kyle had always been better at keeping his in control though. That was one thing Christophe wasn't going to forget.

"I don't think you can smoke in here anyway." The pretentious lady in her pantsuit was leaning forward slightly, hands clasped, earnestly looking at him. One had to wonder if she was part of some ridiculous anti-smoking brigade that felt it necessary to invade personal space to get their point across. "It's not very healthy, after all."

"Walking outside iz not very 'ealthy, eizer," was all the French boy had to say in reply. The pretentious lady sniffed slightly, stood up and walked away. The French boy sighed and stared at his cigarette for a long moment. Kyle had never liked them very much, he had hated the smell and refused to even try one. Now, that hadn't been a problem, neither one of them pressured the other into doing what they didn't want to, nor did they try to change how the other one already was. Which was a good thing, seeing as the French boy didn't change for anyone and, had Kyle ever tried to change him, things might have turned out very differently. He probably wouldn't have even been in the waiting room if Kyle had ever dared to do such a thing.

The French boy's name was Christophe DeLorne and he he detested all but three people who dared to shorten it. You could also say that he respected them for having the balls to do so. Of the three one was, naturally, Kyle Broflovski. The other two were unimportant, at least at this point, especially if the night ended how Christophe thought it would. In that case he would call one of those people and - but he did not want to think about it. Cynical as the French boy was this was a situation that did not allow him to act in that way. There was a little inkling of what most people would have called hope, lodged somewhere between his heart - contrary to popular belief, he did had one - and his mind.

Yes, many people who met him saw him as a cold individual, perhaps they simply just thought of him as fucked up. It was a misconception that happened often. Christophe could admit that he was of the odd sort, he was not completely normal. But then he would always question what was normal, anyway? Then again, even if there was no such thing as normal, the French boy was on the very outskirts of weird. A backstreet that not even truly messed up individuals liked to hang around. Christophe lived on that street and he didn't mind it very much.

Honestly, the French boy did not mind much of anything. Well, besides guard dogs, but that was another story involving a five year-old version of him and two rather excited pit bulls at his Aunt Marie's house and that was a memory Christophe did not liken to one of the fond sort. The point is, nothing really got to him. Sure he didn't _like _many things. God, most of all, he did not like _that _merciless faggot in the least. And while religious people tended to annoy the everliving Parisian out of him and romantic comedy movies made him want to gouge his eyes out - alright, so a lot of things bothered him, but he had good reason for them all. Christophe did not hate without reason.

What was it the Americans said? Ah, yes, there was a method to his madness, although most people had a hard time finding it. The French boy was having a hard time finding something to think about. All thoughts, all chains of probably ideas, inevitable led to a certain redheaded Jew. The year-old magazines on the table next to the chair he sat in were not of the sort Kyle would have ever touched or thought about reading. While Christophe was not the kind of 'non-conformist' that he knew some people to be, he _was _a bit opposed to things like celebrities and the people who were obsessed with them.

And so, to most people, a magazine featuring one of those pop stars that couldn't figure out the workings of lip syncing when they had, no doubt, been doing it their entire lifes, would not have led to any thoughts at all Jew-related. After all, Jews were notoriously lacking rhythm and, said pop star was not. But Christophe's mind cheated and found ways around that, linking the pop star to Bebe Stevens, they both had the same color hair, and then, from there, it was a simple connection. It had been, after all, Bebe who had made Christophe very aware of just how sweet Kyle's ass really was.

He remembered talking to Bebe at a party, some time ago, for something he wasn't sure of, at someone's house, but not someone who the French boy actually knew. Christophe tended to show up when he wanted to and where he wanted to for no other reason but. If he wanted to be at a party he would show up uninvited and, conversely, when invited he wouldn't tell you if he was coming or not and rarely did. He was out of school all the time and had a doctor's note for everything, even when it was apparent there was absolutely nothing wrong with him. Then again, he mused silently to himself as he took a drag on his cigarette, if there was one thing he had learned in the past few hours it was that there could be something very wrong with a person without it being obvious.

The party, though, and talking to Bebe, was when it had all really begun. Christophe, you see, is not a very sociable person. Even as he sat in the waiting room, people all around him waiting for whatever it was that needed to be waited for, there was a considerable air around him. The pretentious anti-smoking woman had to of been blind to not notice the don't-talk-to-me aura that eminated from the French boy. This wasn't to say that, had someone talked to him about something other than not smoking, he wouldn't of replied. The thing was, Christophe did not go up and talk to people and rarely had much to say in reply. Bebe Stevens, on the other hand, never shut up, and their conversation had been heavy on her side and light on his.

"What are you doing?" she had asked, twirling a strand of dirty blonde hair around her index finger. Christophe had stared at her for a while before looking pointedly at his cigarette. Because, quite honestly, what did it _look _like he was doing? But he did not have the heart to point out how stupid the question was. The French boy certainly was not what one would have called nice, but he was not simply rude to people that he barely knew, like, for example, Bebe Stevens. "Oh," she had said in response, smiling. "Did Stan invite you or was it Wendy? I didn't know you were friends with either of them."

Friends, the French boy had thought, were not very important. Oh, sure, everyone said you needed friends and you needed people to talk to. But he had been doing a fine job of being a bottle of emotions, exploding at times when it seemed prudent and keeping things in when necessary. He was in control of his emotions, he hadn't even cried - everyone else had cried and he had the most reason out of all of them to cry, but he had not even thought about that emotion. And friends were, well, suffice it to say that had he had any friends Wendy Testaburger and Stan Marsh would not have made the list in any cirsumstances.

"Neizer of zem," was all he had supplied, averting his gaze from the blonde. They were outside and so were most people. July, it had been in July, Christophe remembered because it was only a few short days after his birthday. Perhaps it had been the American's Independence day. Everyone had certainly been acting independent of all morality.

"Then why are you here?" And then, much to the French boy's horror, Bebe had giggled. Giggles, all right, those bothered him too, right up there with guard dogs and any movie involving someone named Jennifer.

"Because," he had replied, simply, "I want to be." Then, because he was thoroughly annoyed by the girl, he had thrown the cigarette, which might have still been good for a minute or two, to the side and made to walk away. Made to walk away because he didn't exactly get a chace to and it was all because Kyle Broflovski had the audacity to maintain morals all through his teenage years. The nerve of the redhead to not smoke or drink, ever, did he think he was above all of them?

"Jesus Christ, Bebe, please tell me you're not drunk," the worried looking Jew had said, ignoring Christophe completely. So completely, really, that it wasn't hard to tell that he was doing it on purpose.

"Oh, not yet," Bebe had said. And once more, she had giggled. And then - and this was what showed Christophe that, while there was no hope for someone like Bebe, there was a lot of promise in someone like Kyle - she had slapped him on the ass and commented, "You look cute tonight, Kyle." Only she had drawn out his name so that it was not so different from the sound a cat being hit over the head with shovel might have made. Christophe had winced and Kyle had done the same and Bebe had just giggled and apparently seen another nice ass across Stan's backyard and made a beeline for it.

Because, the French boy had noted, Kyle did have a pretty nice ass.

"So you aren't drunk?" Kyle asked, looking at Christophe as if the French boy was his last hope.

"Non," the last hope had said in answer.

"Oh." There was a moment of silence. "Did you know that, um...the Declaration of Independence, only two people actually signed it on July 4th, almost everyone else signed it in August? So I don't really know why we're celebrating this shit." And Christophe was pretty sure he had fallen in love right then.

There was a nurse. She was tired looking and her hair was a mess and it was quite easy to tell that she had been given the unfortunate task of being the bearer of bad news, as always. The French boy felt a tiny pang of pity for her, he knew it wasn't easy to tell anyone that someone had died, and she seemed to do it so often. Everyone who was waiting in the room looked up every time she came in. It wasn't just any waiting room, after all, it was the ICU waiting room. Inadequate Care Unit, as Christophe saw it. People seemed to be dying left and right.

The most disturbing thing was not the fact that people were dying on the other side of the doors that the nurse always walked through, though, it was the crying that so routinely sounded when she pulled someone aside to tell them what had happened.

People came and went, cigarettes went and came, time ticked by like it always did and the nurse looked more and more like she wanted someone to have to give her own family news of the death of a loved one. The French boy stared at his shoes, not his shoes, really. They were Kyle's. Everything was Kyle's. He stared at the floor, deadly clean as it was, like someone had scrubbed it until you could see the faint reflections of the people sitting in the waiting room. Christophe thought it made everything twice as depressing. There was a television in the corner, infomercials playing, hosts with cheerful voices. As far as Christophe was concerned he should have been able to turn the damn thing off, if not smash it into a million pieces. But he wasn't really thinking about the television.

He was thinking about something Kyle had said once, in answer to Christophe asking him what he thought love was.

"Love is watching someone die," Kyle had replied and it hadn't made sense to the French boy at the time.

Now it made perfect sense.

"Hun, visiting hours are over, you're going to have to leave." It was the nurse, her hair pulled back into a messy bun, dark circles under her eyes. Green eyes, too, like this place didn't remind Christophe of the only person he had ever loved enough as it was. "I'm sorry, were you waiting for someone?"

"Non," Christophe said, standing up. "I am not waiting for anybody." And then the French boy had left, wondering if the nurse would remember him. He had been in the waiting room every day for the past month after all, just sitting and thinking and - well, he wasn't exactly sure what he had been doing. Kyle wasn't going to miraculously walk out and greet him. No one was going to tell him the secret of transcending between the living and the dead and the French boy was rather sure Kyle would not have wanted that for him anyway. So he left the hospital, inhaled and exhaled the cool mountain air and walked in the opposite direction of where his home was.

After all, this was going to be his last chance to visit the graveyard before he left South Park for good.

Perhaps, for Kyle, love had meant watching someone die, but for Christophe it was waiting for something that was never going to come.

**Finish**

**A/N**: Yes, I am officially the worst person ever. If you're wondering how Kyle died and whatnot, I really don't know. I'd have to say it was a disease, definitely but I have no complete answer for what exactly happened, it just did. And you know, I think that's how Christophe would handle death, I don't know. Maybe you agree, maybe you don't. Ironically I was listening to the most upbeat music ever while writing this. xD  
Leave me a review and let me know what you think?  
-tweekers


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